The book says too much and too little. It touches on many things but fails to expand on them. The style may be well-suited for the attention span of many contemporary readers, but such brevity is clearly inadequate given the daunting complexity of the subject.
At least, that’s what I’ve been told. The criticism may be fair, but it is also true of haiku. Or more generally, of any sketch.
Growing up in my grandfather’s art studio, I never developed an interest in art – except for minimalist sketches. I was mesmerized by the apparent ease with which they captured the essence of my experience. Not the essence of the objects being portrayed – as those pencil drawings were almost bare – but of some mysterious dynamics they seemed to set in motion somewhere deep inside my mind.
The book is full of sketches. Each thread starts out as a sketch, to be seemingly abandoned only to resurface later, intertwined with other free-floating sketches. Each one of the numerous quotes scattered throughout the book is a sketch, elegantly encapsulating its author’s experience at the time. The book itself is a sketch. Its purpose is to capture a fleeting impression of something hitherto intangible.
This blog post also feels like a sketch. I wonder, what is it the sketch of?